


I can't make it snow, but I don't have to

by cedarcliffe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Incest, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:45:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarcliffe/pseuds/cedarcliffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves his brother in the winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can't make it snow, but I don't have to

Sam is laughing.

His neck stretches bare, pale in the weak sunlight, shivering with sound. His teeth flash whiter, dimples cut around his smile. His hair is plastered to his face by a too-small knit cap Dean found half engulfed in ice by a lake two towns ago, something baby blue and forgotten, warm and soft after he worked the dead leaves out it between his fingers in a sinkbasin of lukewarm water and powdered detergent. It disappears against the clear, bright sky.

Dean loves his brother in the winter. Cheeks bitten pink and eyes narrowed and watering. The way he constantly sniffs ten minutes into the frozen air because always, inevitably, his nose runs in the cold, its tip flushed with color above chapped lips. Mouth vibrant and abused with the constant brush of his tongue, a vicious cycle of spit replacing frost replacing spit. Ice gathers on his lashes, melts in the hollows of his eyes when he scrubs at them with the back of a glove. Fingers cut off, edges coming unwound.

It's the first snow, and their jackets are not enough, but their boots are perfect.

They run. They shove and skid and tumble into a drift and Dean jams snow down the back of Sam's shirt and Sam bellows outrage and vengeance and vicious joy. Dean gets a facefull of soft, sticky powder that coats him like flour, sputters and flails until his brother shoves him deeper into the engulfing white. His tongue is a brand of heat on Dean's cheekbone, swiping a patch of his skin bare.

Then he's up and gone, Dean left spread out in the snow, bemused and bereft, on his feet a moment too late to snag the back of Sam's hood.

It's a chase. A new game, an old game. A dance they've perfected for years.

Sam will run. He's faster, but Dean will persist. Will keep going as long as it takes to catch him. And when he does, he'll pull him close, pull him tight. Press their skins together in something like a promise. Something like I love you.

Something like I'll never let you go.


End file.
